


Sora, or Should I Say Sanji?

by PGT



Category: One Piece
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Zosan, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, I'm being generous with the mature rating because its all pretty subtle, Implied/Referenced Sex, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 04:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20203627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PGT/pseuds/PGT
Summary: Sanji has lived over a decade as his mother's replacement, locked in a cage only to leave for his father's desires and the occasional walk. When Germa is suddenly attacked, he is freed and taken in to a group of peculiar people, all of which treat him kindly. It is only when he meets the second half of the crew that he has any trouble with the group; in particular their muscle-headed swordsman.





	Sora, or Should I Say Sanji?

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many wips from the past year I never finished! I'm going to post a handful of first chapters and see which ones get traffic, see if I want to continue writing any of these. I really liked this concept in particular, and am excited to explore gender dysphoria in Sanji.
> 
> As always, my Tumblr is loyle-trash so feel free to send any requests or questions there! I also answer those in my fic comments.

Sanji was given an hour of sunlight every day. It was always later in the evening, when the sun streaked the sky with purples and oranges, if he had not seen the sun as a child he might expect the sky to always be those colors. 

He was let out to the gardens with shackled arms and legs, so that he could not strike his guards or flee, though on Germa 66’s artificial islands there was nothing to flee to, and with his frail body even a stealthy attack would do very little to improve his chances. He had stopped considering escape a long time ago, regardless. Over a decade ago he had given in, accepted that he was property, and served little more than what his father desired.

On these walks, he often preferred to walk in the graveyard. It was the only place on the island that plant life flourished, the centerpiece a tall stone that marked his mother’s place of rest. It was peculiar that the memorial to the woman he had replaced brought him such comfort.

“Sora, time to go back in.”

He let his head drop for just a moment, wishing he could stay in the fresh air a moment longer. His long hair fluttered in the wind, brushing against his shoulders. His dress rippled against his porcelain-white calves. He flexed his toes into the soil, clutched his painted nails to the bench beneath him.

When he knew he could not push his luck any longer, he let the guard lead him back to his room-- his prison. The man affixed his shackles back to the steel fixture within the wall, preventing him from moving more than a few feet from the bed. He remembered hating this restriction as a child, pacing the outer perimeter endlessly, scuffing permanent marks in a semicircle that he could likely point out, were the room lit. Now he had resigned to the limitation, recognized it as just another method to keep him like his mother. If he couldn’t move, he couldn’t build muscle or lose weight.

His father visited later in the night, and Sanji did well in not upsetting him. He was administered a bath in the morning, given a light breakfast, and left to rest until dinner, and then he would take his walk once more, and his life would cycle forwards.

Sometimes on his walks, He would see his siblings-- or his children. The brothers always called him mother. Reiju had always avoided the word. A benefit to no longer being Sanji, to being their mother, was that he was no longer beaten as soon as he met their eyes. But what they had done was never repaired, and it was hard to forget their fists and shoes against his body when he saw them. He was not asked to pretend, to hug them or tell them warm things; his voice had always been too deep to keep the facade. Judge rathered he not speak at all.

But even dealing with his siblings in the dusk sky was better than waiting, chained to his bed in a pitch black room.

It doesn’t ever get explained to Sanji what had instigated the fight. He only heard cannonfire, the iconic sound of his sibling’s powersuits, the shriek of lightning, the roar of fire, the creak of a vice, the hiss of poison.

He was not fed for two days as whatever outside endured. It began to worry him, that every Germa soldier had died, that his caretakers were dead, that he would starve, die slowly and forgettably in a pitch black room.

On the second day, he heard footsteps. He was deep in the basement, no invader would search this far. He felt stupid for thinking Germa would have lost. He didn’t call out, knowing his father would retaliate if he let his deep tone be heard.

The footsteps passed, and so did the day. On the third day the footsteps came back. He was hungry, and considered calling out. He meant to, but the words wouldn’t escape his throat.

They didn’t have to, fortunately. He heard locks clicking, rooms that weren’t his own but nearby. He heard a woman’s voice whine and scoff. He heard another click of locks, closer this time. It was accompanied by a smooth male voice and a peculiar laugh. The third set of locks he knew was his own room. He knew now that these were not Germa soldiers, but he wasn’t sure what that meant for him.

The door opened. Light filtered in blocked immediately by a broad shouldered man. He stared directly at Sanji. Sora stared back.

“Someone’s in here!” the man hollered, in a voice much more childish than Sanji had expected from his size. He hadn’t turned away when he shouted, but his companions must have heard him, as Sanji recognized their voices replying, coming nearer.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” the man asked, and suddenly shrank into a form that fit his voice. “I’m a doctor, and we have all the keys. Do you know which ones would unlock you?”

Sanji can’t find his voice. He doesn’t tell the doctor that he’s a man. He only shakes his head.

“May I examine you?”

He nods. The doctor comes closer, and his features become clearer, more animal-like. Sanji doesn’t understand it, but he hasn’t seen anything outside of Germa soldiers and his own family. He pulls a device Sanji recognizes scientists using out of a blue bag and puts it into his ears, pressing the third arm to Sanji’s chest.

The doctor frowns, and mutters about heart rate. He looks at Sanji’s face, at his eyes, but whines that it’s too dark to examine her.

It’s then that his companions arrive. They gasp, and the woman rushes forward with a jingle of metal, holding up a keyring.

“This is horrible!” She cries, and only then does Sanji feel himself relax. It was not the kind doctor, but the woman’s blunt statement is what makes him trust the three.

“I haven’t eaten,” He croaked, the woman’s face growing more stern with this admission.

“Brook, take care of that would you?” She ordered. The man at the door saluted, and only when he lifted his hands did Sanji see that there was no skin over his fingers, or eyes in the sockets that stared into the room. He did not fear this, but was certainly confused.

The man went off, and by the time he returned the doctor, Chopper, had poked and prodded him every which way, not lifting Sanji’s clothes as he checked for bruises, and thus not noticing the singular detail that might separate Sanji from Sora. Nami, the woman, had pressed every key into every opening in his shackles, eventually freeing him entirely.

Brook returned with a large plate and a variety of food and drink. It was more food than Sanji had seen at once, and when he was presented with it his days long hunger caused him to gorge himself, and he became sick before the little doctor could advise against it. On the plate were foods he hadn’t eaten since he had been called Sanji. Bread, eggs, fish, meat. The plate had to be taken away, and Sanji feared he had angered the tall skeletal man by eating so much, and expected to be striked. Instead the man patted Sanji’s silken hair and gave what was perhaps a soft smile. “You’ll love our captain, eating like this.” 

Sanji did not understand the meaning behind his words, but they were kind, and he pulled his head away from his chest where he had drawn it close protectively. Nami and Chopper smiled at him sadly, but none of them addressed the wince.


End file.
